


Forchetta

by halotolerant



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Improvised Sex Toys, M/M, Painplay, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Public Hand Jobs, Semi-Public Sex, Teasing, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-18 00:38:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5891284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halotolerant/pseuds/halotolerant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Keeping his smile serene, Hannibal answers the questions of the lady seated to his right, who wishes to know more about his thoughts on Florence - here, in Rome, there is perhaps a rivalry - and waits for Will’s fingers to tire of pinching him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forchetta

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: _Ok but imagine this: our muder husbands are in Italy and Hanni is throwing a dinner party, with like a bazillion guests. Everything is going great until Will, who is obviously very bored, decides to have some fun. He starts touching Hanni under the table. Hanni tries not to lose his shit. That's it. Picture this happening and show us what you see pls._
> 
> (I’ve messed with details slightly. This is set in Italy Post-TWOTL but they’re are a gala function dinner with lots of little tables, and Will isn’t just bored, he’s pissy *g*)
> 
> Thank you to **rav3nsta9** for Italian corrections *g*

It begins viciously, which perhaps is only right. 

 

Hannibal adjusts his posture very slightly, letting the pain from where, under cover of the wide white linen tablecloth, Will is pinching his thigh, flow through him and mean nothing. 

 

He had been wondering what Will would choose to do, and when. Will didn’t want to attend this gala for the university; didn’t want to dress up, didn’t want to spend an evening isolated by his lack of Italian, didn’t want to be the little husband at Hannibal’s side. 

 

Will might have diverted his frustration into some form of violence against the other guests - Hannibal had been hoping, were this the case, not to miss it. That Will might pursue private destructions has only recently occurred to him. Despite no evidence that such a thing has happened, the very idea is like a blade in his side. 

 

Will’s assault on him now is nothing, next to that. 

 

Keeping his smile serene, Hannibal answers the questions of the lady seated to his right, who wishes to know more about his thoughts on Florence - here, in Rome, there is perhaps a rivalry - and waits for Will’s fingers to tire of pinching him. His trapped flesh sears and burns and tries to die, and it will bruise, and no doubt Will will lick at it as he has at all the other marks he’s ever placed on Hannibal, as though the broken flesh had its own flavour. 

 

They should eat a little of each other, perhaps. Hannibal has been percolating this idea for a while. A reasonable slice of a thigh or lower back wouldn’t matter, in the long run, but it would be disabling, and perhaps too great a risk; only two years since they fled America. Blood can be nourishment alone, of course, but that is not enough, somehow. 

 

There is semen, of course. Quite mundane people consume semen regularly, but then quite mundane people paint and compose music; does that degrade Michelangelo?

 

The release of Will’s pinch comes suddenly; a flood of returning sensation, sharper pain sparking. Hannibal sips his wine to cover the flexing of his mouth. 

 

He turns, moving halfway to refill Will’s glass. 

 

“Caro mio?” Hannibal offers. 

 

“Why did I show you that movie?” Will spits, all smiles and secret venom. “It was a joke, not a suggestion.”

 

Hannibal speaks low enough to keep their neighbours in ignorance: “Do I irritate you then?” 

 

“Like grit in an oyster.” And Will holds his gaze, makes Hannibal keep looking so that he can see Will palming the fork into his hand and then his lap, below the level of the tablecloth. 

 

If Will stabs him properly, there will be blood. That will be hard to explain and so Will’s plan will not involve that, but still…

 

Hannibal’s mouth is dry. He sips more wine. He rarely feels the effect of alcohol, but the back of his neck is sweating. 

 

The touch of the fork, when it comes, is so soft that Hannibal takes a moment to identify it. 

 

A long, solid scratch, only just enough to dent the skin, all along the inside of one thigh and then the other; Hannibal feels his breath skip a little, and widens his legs. 

 

He can hear the satisfied hiss of breath from Will. 

 

Launching into the Florentine Renaissance, Hannibal allows himself to make a very old joke, and in the laughter of those around him pants out his breath; Will’s fork at the apex of his legs now, slow, slow, dangerous drag over Hannibal’s genitals, tines pressing in just, just shy of sore. 

 

It doesn’t help that Hannibal is getting hard. 

 

Will scrapes the fork over his trouser-fabric, up and up his shaft, so much just delicately enough, and then the pressure is on the head of Hannibal’s penis and he coughs, slightly, and asks for a bread roll, bites into it hard. 

 

Suddenly, Hannibal’s thickening erection is blanketed in warmth, blunt and all-encompassing after the pin-point pressure of the fork tines, and Hannibal realises that Will has changed to flattening out his palm at Hannibal’s crotch, cupping him with a touch that now feels nothing like enough. 

 

“Dearest one,” Will says, quite calmly, as if in need of his attention, and Hannibal has to turn to look at him, has to be confronted by Will’s own self-collection and pale indifference, as between them Will’s hand finds the damp spot where Hannibal is starting to leak and the pad of his thumb rubs over it. 

 

“Dearest one,” says Will, with the words like darning needles. “I can’t understand the dessert menu, would you translate for me?” And he smiles, shy and self-deprecating, at the others at the table. They are all looking at them now, smiling indulgently or frowning with distaste in their turn at the gay, foreign couple in their midst. Hannibal has taken their names and their responses carefully into his mind, but right now he’s not quite sure of retrieving that information. 

 

He picks up the menu card. Will’s hand starts moving, a slow rub, up and down. 

 

Hannibal swallows, and begins his translation, carefully. He thinks his voice sounds rather thick, but no one seems to notice. 

 

It is in the midst of the various flavours of ice-cream (in Italy, this lasts a while), that Hannibal takes his chance. 

 

Will’s working of him has turned rhythmic, fluid. The back of Will’s neck is pink, and the tips of his ears. 

 

Will, for all his qualities, has forgotten that this is a fight. 

 

In one sure movement, Hannibal shoots out his hand between them, and takes Will’s heavy balls into a crushing grip under the double cover of the tablecloth and Will’s napkin. 

 

Will’s eyes fairly bulge in his head. He jacks forward, and coughs, and yelps, and comes at once, hotly and wetly into Hannibal’s hand, soaking through the fabric of his trousers. His own hand makes a grab for balance and grips Hannibal’s thigh, sending new waves of pain through the bruise. 

 

Hannibal is intending to have that bruise explored thoroughly, as soon as they get home. 

 

“Caro mio?” Hannibal asks, and stands up, his own napkin covering his arousal, and carefully knocks a glass of red wine over Will’s crotch, which conceals many sins. 

 

“<<My poor little cherub>>” Hannibal says to the table, apologetically - from Will’s furious expression it’s clear he gets the sense, if not the exact meaning. “<<He can be a little highly strung, I think I should get him home to rest>>”

 

He urges Will out of the room, taking his arm. As they make it to the door, Will stumbles and knocks into him. 

 

“I’m going to make you scream, Dearest One,” Will mutters to him. “I’m going to make you scream till your throat burns out and you can’t lecture for a week.”

 

Will’s eyes are shining, divinely wrathful. 

 

Hannibal feels himself throb with wanting, and walks a little more quickly to the exit. 

 


End file.
